Guard Body, Soul, Heart, and Mind
by Pinlie
Summary: Nine year old child prodigy Sherlock Holmes is rich, powerful, and kidnapped on a far-too-regular basis. And bodyguards- ugh, they are so irritating. They stick out and they never even manage to guard him properly. Cue Mycroft's genius plan: John Watson, Youth Service Body Guard (YSBG.) Rated T for possible future chapters, nothing so far passes K.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes, age 9 years and three months young, child prodigy and billionaire, was not exactly the most sociable of children (or of people really.) Not only was he intelligent, rich, and (vaguely, for his age) good looking, he was not even on his double-digits yet in age and therefore everyone always thought they could take advantage of or manipulate him. It wasn't true; anyone who knew Sherlock personally knew he was more stubborn and strong-willed than anyone they'd ever met and was less innocent to the ways of the world than any child should ever be. Not very many people in the world knew him personally though, and so the knowledge wasn't widespread. Thus, such things never stopped the hundreds of kidnappers from their attempts and ransom demands.

His elder brother, Mycroft who was the current head of his company, (just until Sherlock was legally old enough to run it himself he'd been told), tried to give him protection in all sorts of forms- bodyguards, cameras, snipers, constant surveillance, the works. But Sherlock hated the stifling nature of such things and often made a game of escaping from his brother's careful watch. A lot of the time, it was Sherlock himself that got into the hands of the various madmen out for his brains, money, or influence. He got bored easily, and at least dangerous criminals gave him something to do.

He was only a child and he never truly understood the severity and finality of the very high risk of death he was constantly in- well, he could hardly be blamed. Before he'd made his own fortune and a name for himself, he'd already been in danger because of his parent's social status. Thus, before young Sherlock had even turned four years old, kidnapping was not really out of the ordinary. An attempt occurred almost weekly, and although they succeeded far less often than that, it still made the everyday kidnapping not a very big deal to him.

He didn't understand the need for protection- it never worked, it was annoying, and Mycroft always had to save him anyways. Why spend all the money and effort protecting him when it'd still happen anyway? Or so he'd informed his brother while being lectured for giving his latest bodyguard the slip at the school gates that day.

Honestly, why couldn't Mycroft get it? Bodyguards stood out. He didn't want to stand out, not any more than he already did. Hateful bodyguards and an insufferable Mycroft aside, he had a hard enough time getting along with kids his own age- or anyone, actually. It wasn't lonely- he had Mummy and Mycroft and Father and his nanny, Mrs. Hudson. He didn't need them. It was just that- the kids, when they talked and played together- they looked like they were having so much fun. Somehow, Mycroft had managed to extract that information from him, (curse the torturing berk, tickling was cheating!), and told Sherlock he had the perfect solution.

Sherlock was sure Mycroft would completely fail to impress, but he was bored enough to let him try, so when he was sent a text telling him to meet Mycroft at ten o'clock at the front gate, he went, albeit apprehensively. He got there just as a car was pulling up, (Mycroft's second favorite, it must be important), and made sure to stand well out of the way as the gatekeeper buzzed him in. (Previous experience and some mostly-harmless pranks had led to a good amount of caution where the gatekeeper was concerned. Such an unfortunate way to find out that solid metal bars hurt when swung fast enough.) However, Mycroft had no such qualms and wasted no time in pulling through and getting out of the car. Then- and wow, this was weird- he actually opened the back door and held it open as a little blonde boy got out of rear seat. (He _never _did menial tasks like that; that's what servants were for, or so he'd always told Sherlock) The boy was older than Sherlock by three or four years at the most and also shorter and sturdier and overall more average looking. Short blonde hair, wide blue eyes, rigid posture, oddly well-built… Could it be? He quickly looked to his brother for confirmation-

"That's right Sherlock, good deduction. Meet your new live-in bodyguard, John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes."

***Definition one: Bodyguard (all credit on definition goes to:)

_***American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition_

***n. A person or group of persons, usually armed, responsible for the safety of one or more other persons.

*****A/N:** _Well. I've had this written for a while and never got around to posting it, mostly because I didn't like it much. I recently found it again and edited it into this slightly better version. Please review and tell me what you think! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

*****A/N**:_ A bit of John perspective for y'all. Please review: I love hearing from you! (oh look, it rhymed)_

John Watson is fourteen years old, thank you oh so very much, not thirteen, twelve, eleven, and definitely not ten. In fact, he's nearly fifteen. (Not that you could tell that from looking at him.) So, yes, he is short for his age- and maybe he still has some of his baby fat- but that didn't mean that he should not be taken seriously. John can still incapacitate men three to four times his size. He knows more than a dozen different hand-to-hand combat styles. His knowledge of weaponry could be used to fill a database and his creativity and improv skills in his Weapon Adaption classes made him first in his year. That's not even mentioning the skill he's famous for among bodyguard circles- his aim. It's practically legendary. He can shoot a handgun and hit the COM* 99.3% of the time. From 25 yards, his average spread is an inch and a half in diameter; on good days it's an inch. Of course, he knows how to subdue targets in more discreet ways as well, (gun shots are quite loud and very distracting after all; sometimes clients require more subtlety), it's just he prefers using his gun. It's less messy that way; the gun powder stains aren't that hard to scrub off.

Nightmares though- those are harder to simply brush away. He hates that he can't wash away his feelings like he does the grime, blood, and residue. If there was a drain he could pour the tormenters of his nights down he'd do it in an instant. Sadly that's not an option. Every night he dreams, in full color and surround sound, of every death he's caused and, worse, every life he's failed to save. He hates it. He's too old for baby things like nightmares. He's not a kid anymore; he's a full-time bodyguard and about to go on his fifth official assignment: protecting some posh genius child-prodigy from potential kidnappers and, perhaps, himself (or at least, that's what his employer had appeared to be insinuating when he'd been given the job.) John wasn't exactly sure how it was all going to work but they'd offered an all-expenses paid testing period that if he passed (or rather, survived) would be extended to a more permanent job.

When the slick, black car rolled up to the gate outside his bunker and the driver stepped out John, who was waiting and watching apprehensively through 5 and a half inches of bullet proof glass, knew he was in for it. He knew that his clients were posh, and they obviously had money if they were hiring a body guard but- wow. It was really only sinking in now. The driver strode to the gate and was buzzed in. Not even half a minute later the PA's bulb lit up above his head and John promptly stabbed the button, allowing it to squawk to life.

"BG‡ John Watson to Gate 800, Repeat: BG‡ John Watson to Gate 800."

John stood up, shouldered his pack, and marched up to the front of the bunker, passing check points with a swipe of his ‡ card. He'd already said his goodbyes yesterday since his team was on duty today so there was no one to see him off around. The whole place felt strangely empty without Bill and Mike and the guys around as, with one last swipe, he left the bunker and approached Gate 800, (nicknamed the BOO Gate by John and his squad.) The feeling of emptiness, he knew, would soon disappear. All he needed was a client to protect and his sense of purpose would outweigh everything else. Which is why he was currently heading out-

After getting scanned and swiping his card again he was allowed inside the Gate lobby. There the driver nodded to him, indicating he was to follow behind. He obliged, anticipatory energy swelling up and infecting him with excitement. John took a moment to school his face into a blank mask and then kept 10 paces behind the driver as he was led outside, past the gate, and to the car. Upon arriving the driver leaned forward to open the door- wait, what was that? John spotted it, only briefly, but it was there. A gun, (Glock most likely, or something very similar), was protruding just the smallest bit from his suit jacket. John knew that it wasn't strange for his client to have more than one armed body guard on hand but he resolved to keep an eye on the man anyways. As he slipped into the (incredibly expensive looking) black Aston Martin One-77 his eyes never left the man's gun. You could never be too careful, especially in a new environment. Of that, he was sure.

"That's right Sherlock, good deduction. Meet your new live-in bodyguard, John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes."

John sized his new client up and nearly laughed out loud when he realized that Mr. Holmes-the-younger was doing the same. He didn't even have the chance to regain control of his facial muscles, however, before they were going slack. From shock. This… boy… he wasn't just some posh kid. He really was a genius. He was…

"Amazing. That was… amazing."


End file.
